


Crimson

by kintsugih



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dark, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 00:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kintsugih/pseuds/kintsugih
Summary: Autophobia (n) - the fear of being alone.





	Crimson

It’s a bittersweet feeling.

The shine of the knife darkened with the wells of his blood, dripping, dripping, dripping like the remnants of his life - dripping, dripping, dripping like sand disappearing in cupped hands.

No matter how hard he holds on, the sand still falls.

The clatter of the cutlery on the floor was the only sound in the dark house, the silence wrapping around the neck of the dark-eyed man. His gaze was blank as he stared at the window, the moonlight glinting off the crimson of his wrist.

Deep down he was screaming, for what he had forgotten these past days. Or weeks? He had lost count.

Deep down he was screaming, a song of pain but the words were lost.

He thinks he has stopped screaming, even though the blade lies less than a feet beside him, along with a pool of red liquid, still streaming from his wrist.

It’s a bittersweet taste.

A lump grew in his parched throat, and it was hard to swallow whatever was left of his deteriorating saliva. His tongue was like a block of stone in his mouth, and for that he was glad.

It’s been a while since he has drank water. It’s been some time now since he’s been alone in this cold house.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt warm.

He eased himself into standing, even though his muscles barked in protest. He ignored the aching, and he ignored the path of blood coating the palm of his hand - no - he savored it.

He was sick of everybody treating him like fragile glass, treating him as if he was the scared thing he once was.

He was sick of everything.

His thoughts ran in circles in his head, the shadows blending in with the hollowness resting in his bones.

It’s a bittersweet memory.

It was night, yet he laid down on the floor a few steps away from the door. He had lost feeling in his arm, although that was something he was accustomed to.

It was the memory of a certain boy that brang him from the brink of his heavy darkness to the quiet vigilance he emanated.

He remembered a flash of a smile and the happiness that burst in his chest whenever he ran his fingers through the mess of orange hair. He remembered the scent of subtle cologne and the comfort of the other’s hoodie.

And now he was left with this.

This empty misery.

It took some time before the floor also held a puddle of copper, albeit a smaller one now that his arm was white. He still didn’t care.

He thinks he’s hallucinating when he hears the creak of a door, when he spots those colored eyes darting around the house.

Then those eyes falling on him.

“ _ Minho _ ?” the words were breathed, and a small whimper escaped the other’s throat.

It’s a bittersweet story, he thinks, as he lets himself smile at the orange-haired man.

**Author's Note:**

> Wassup it's Author-ssi. I was feeling pretty pissed when I wrote this so I'm sorry Minho. If you squint, you'll find something pretty interesting. When the door creaks, its symbolism of him passing through the gates of Death. And when he meets Jisung, he smiles. You may have been wondering why he did smile when he saw Jisung, who you have presumed left Minho (or something like that). But he smiled because he saw Jisung, in Death. Hope you enjoyed and leave a comment below!


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